


Car Crash Hearts

by QuickLikeLight



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emo, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mutually Unrequited, Originally Posted on Tumblr, POV Alternating, POV Second Person, Pining, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 13:01:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3210125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickLikeLight/pseuds/QuickLikeLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His hands on your body are brands, scraping over skin. They are hungry and restless, like they always are, and you love it, like you always do. You push up, forward, in, like you could hole up in his chest where his heart is, because that is the only way it will be close to you. </p><p>Or, the angsty mutual pining emo music-inspired ficlet series no one asked for but we all cried about anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This Air is Blessed, You Share With Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost from Tumblr, which has been edited. The songs referenced are: 
> 
> 1.[Hands Down by Dashboard Confessional](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kVN2b0DdZAQ)  
> 2\. [Of All the Gin Joints in the World by Fall Out Boy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yKRnpGZyjcM)  
> 3\. [The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot by Brand New](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j0naRFSK2hQ)  
> 4\. [Somewhere Only We Know by Keane](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oextk-If8HQ)
> 
> I have several people to thank for this, but primarily [Dan](http://poseyswinterbottom.tumblr.com) and [Dea](http://tofixtheshadows.tumblr.com). Dig the fuck out of both of you.

_My hopes are so high // that your kiss might kill me // So won’t you kill me // so I die happy // My heart is yours to fill or burst // to break or bury // or wear as jewelery // which ever you prefer._

His hands on your body are brands, scraping over skin. They are hungry and restless, like they always are, and you love it, like you always do. You push up, forward, in, like you could hole up in his chest where his heart is, because that is the only way it will be close to you. 

"C’mon Scotty," he says, mouth open and wet and too tempting as you slide your tongue inside it. "Come on, come on. Do it for me." 

You should feel shame, you think, as you arch into the broad stroke of his palm. Outside this little paradise ( _a bathroom stall, locked, just yours, the two of you_ ) there is a world of activity blurring past. He drags your shirt higher up your chest, biting at your neck. “Don’t listen to them, listen to me. Focus on me.” 

As if you are ever truly looking at anything else. 

"That’s right, there you are," he grins, hand speeding up where it grips you. "You look so good like this, Scott. So fucking hot.  _Love_  it when you -“ 

It should be embarrassing that this is all it takes, a single word and you’re over the edge, covering his hand and your stomach. 

"So hot, man," he grins against your skin, offers you a baby wipe to clean up with. He keeps them in his bag these days. "A boyscout’s always prepared," he winks, when you ask. 

Cleaning yourself off feels like failure. 

"How… much time…?" Your voice is hoarse, like it’s gone unused for days and not minutes. You don’t trust yourself to talk like this. There’s never a shortage of destruction hovering on the tip of your tongue. 

"Enough," he assures you as you sink to your knees. 


	2. (Now I Only Waste It Dreaming Of You)

_You only hold me up like this // Cause you don’t know who I really am // Sometimes I just want to know what its like to be you // We’re making out inside crashed cars // We’re sleeping through all our memories // I used to waste my time dreaming of being alive._

When you wake in the night and he’s there, sleeping soundly beside you, it is difficult not to wonder if this, too, is a dream. 

The curve of his nose, the slight muss of his hair, the flutter of his eyelashes on his sleep-flushed cheeks cannot possibly be real, and yet when you blink, he stays. You lose track of time as the moon moves across the sky, until his breathing speeds up and his eyes flutter open.

"Are you watching me sleep?" he asks, face lighting with that familiar brilliance and mouth twitching around sleep-stale breath. 

"It’s not my fault you’re attractive," you say, bold as brass. He flinches a little, but the smile doesn’t fade. You have perfected the sidelong look, the twist of your smile that makes it seem casual, disinterested,  _platonic_.

A joke.

You have built a tower of scorn and sarcasm around the place inside that aches for him, and when he says, “So, you wanna…?” with his eyes downcast, your heartbeat never falters.

"Yeah," you say. Your mouth wets at the sound of his voice now, but that’s to be expected. It’s a convenience, when you’re doing this. Helps paint a convincing picture. You swallow, lick your lips. "Need a hand, bro? I’ll help you out." 

He always resists at first, like he knows maybe you’re taking more than is offered, more than he has to give. Keeps his mouth closed when you kiss him, keeps his knees together when you slide your hand into his boxer briefs. “Open up, Scotty,” you whisper against his lips. It’s easiest to pretend you mean his body. 

The clash of hips and tongues and skin is nothing compared with the throbbing ache of your heart against your ribs as it tries to climb out of your chest. It wants so badly to just be his that you think it must be spelled out in your heartbeat, a shrieking alarm of “need me,” and “love me,” and “all of me.” You try to talk over it. 

"That’s it, Scotty. Come on, fuck my fist, that’s right. So fucking hot, man. You like it, don’t you? Like the way I touch you, right? Nobody else does it for you like I do. Nobody ever will, huh, Scott? That’s right, come for me, do it, love it when you come all over me." 

He never lasts long once you start talking, but then, neither do you. 


	3. Call Me a Safe Bet, I'm Betting I'm Not

_If it makes you less sad, I’ll move out of this state // You can keep to yourself, I’ll keep out of your way // And if it makes you less sad, I’ll take your pictures all down // Every picture you paint, I will paint myself out // It’s cold as a tomb, and it’s dark in your room // When I sneak to your bed to pour salt in your wounds // So call it quits, or get a grip // You say you wanted a solution; you just wanted to be missed  
_

The party is the same party you go to every year, the same crowd of handsy drunks, the same too-pop-punk pouring out of the speakers, the same sloshed hostess changing dresses. 

He is the same, every time. 

"Come upstairs with me," he whispers against your ear, and it is a punch to the gut. He is draped over your back, too tall and too thin, like a coat you can’t grow out of but also can’t stand to wear. 

"Go get another drink," you say, forcing a laugh. He rolls his eyes, and you can’t see him, but you know the exact force with which his breath huffs out when he’s pretending to be offended by your hesitance. 

"C’mon, like you don’t want it too," he nuzzles against your face, obvious and too appealing. "You know you love it when we have time. When I can get my mouth on you. Lydia’s got plenty of extra beds. No one will even notice we’re gone."

This is a death sentence. 

"I don’t think it’s a good idea," you say, trying to pull away. You see Kira on the other side of the living room, dancing with Malia, and you try to wave but he catches your arms, spins you around. 

"Are you mad at me?" His face is the perfect blend of disbelief, irritation, and affection. "Did I do something wrong here?" 

 _Not loving you_  isn’t exactly wrong. It just feels like it is.

"No, I just… I’m tired?" you try, but you can tell immediately that it isn’t going to work. Not this time. Possibly because you don’t want it to. You never want it to work. Not when it keeps him away. 

"You’re lying to me," he says, and it doesn’t sound like an admonishment. It’s more like praise, honestly, and maybe he really doesn’t know just how dishonest you’ve been, how every time you come to him, come for him, it is your body scrabbling at the truth. 

"I’m just…." you look around, buying time. "Not drunk enough yet." 

"Like you need to be drunk to get off with me," he laughs. His face dips close to yours, forehead pressing against your forehead right there in the middle of the room. "Scared someone will see us? Don’t want anyone else to know?" 

It’s the truth when you say “Yes,” because the fewer people who see you like this, with him, the fewer people there are to figure out you’re lost at sea over your best friend. 

He doesn’t take it well. His face scrunches up, like he’s in pain for just one second and your heart hurts for it, hurts for hurting him, like it should. It smooths out before you can bring your hand up to cup his face, and then he moves away. 

"Well fuck you very much, Scott," he spits, eyes cold. Your stomach sinks like a stone, but nothing comes out when you open your mouth, just snatched breath hanging between you. 

"You know," he bites again, "You should be so fucking lucky. You can’t even imagine." 

You can. You can imagine. You can imagine. 

Before you can force your lips around the words, fall on your own sword, he’s gone, and you’re alone in a crowded room. 

_You are calm and reposed // Let your beauty unfold // Pale white, like the skin stretched over your bones // Spring keeps you ever close // You are second-hand smoke // You are so fragile and thin, standing trial for your sins // Holding on to yourself the best you can // You are the smell before rain // You are the blood in my veins._


	4. I Knew the Pathway Like the Back of my Hand

_And if you have a minute why don’t we go // Talk about it somewhere only we know? // This could be the end of everything // So why don’t we go //_ _Somewhere only we know? // Somewhere only we know?_

He finds you three days later, sitting on the outcropping in the preserve. You used to come here sometimes, the two of you, before your lives were fangs and claws and the guilt pooled in your stomach between nightmares. 

It took him three days to come to you. 

"Stiles…" he says, and it sounds broken in his mouth, like your name never should. You stern your face, paste on a smile, let your eyes light with the lie. Time for the show. 

"Heeeeey Scotty," you push out, crooking your head so that he can see the upward curve of your lips ( _like his back when you’re over him and he -_ ).

"Please don’t." The words are bitten and rough, too sharp on that soft tongue. You steel yourself for it, even while you watch the ground crumbling beneath you both. 

"Aw, c’mon bro. You’re not mad about the party, right?" Deep breath. _In, two, three. Out, two, three, four, five._ Keep it slow so he can’t see. 

"I’ve been able to recognize your anxiety breathing since we were eleven," he says, and that’s true. That’s true. 

"Don’t be mad," you switch tactics, cajoling. You hop up, try to wrap your body around him, like you can protect the both of you from the bomb that’s about to go off. He shudders. 

"I’m not - I’m not mad. I’m trying to talk to you and you’re not listening and that’s -" He speeds up, body tensed and hard under your hands, and maybe everything’s already blown up. This is just the aftermath. 

"We don’t have to." It sounds like ashes in your mouth and that’s a problem but this problem is bigger. "We can just… not. Talk about it." 

"I can’t." He looks so sad, big brown eyes aching and that’s the worst of it. That he looks sad while he’s breaking your heart. 

"Fine. Okay. Okay. Do it." You want to move away, put some distance between you, protect your gut. You don’t, though. If you never get to hold him again, if this is going to be the last then… well. 

No one could blame you for wanting it to  _last_. 

He doesn’t seem to mind, though, if the way he clings to you is any indication. His hands bracket your waist, soft and smaller than yours and too warm for any sort of comfort, but steadying just the same. His forehead presses into the hard jut of your cheekbone, and he gulps deep breaths against your skin, like he hasn’t had your scent memorized since before it even mattered. 

Maybe it always mattered. 

"I said something the other night that I meant, but not the way you thought I meant it," he starts, convoluted like he always is when he tells you he doesn’t love you. The urge to interrupt him is so strong that your lips open of their own accord, and he covers them with his fingers, three precious finger pads resting against your mouth. "I know you know. I know you’ve figured it out by now, and that’s why you haven’t answered my texts, or my calls. I know you don’t -" he stops, choked, and his shoulders shake like he’s crying, "- but even if you know, I have to tell you anyway." 

Your eyes fill up despite your best efforts. “You really don’t, Scotty.” 

He grips your neck, makes you look him in his eyes as he says it, and that’s the worst, it’s the worst thing, it’s the cruelest thing he could do, and - 

"I’m in love with you." 

The world is still as a tomb. No air moves. Your cells freeze in time and you rest in the moment as you watch the pain play over his face, as the words come tumbling out of his mouth. 

"I know, I know, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so-" 

"Stop," you grip his shoulders tighter. "Stop. Don’t - don’t say you’re sorry. Please don’t be sorry." 

"No, I fucked it up, you just wanted - and I did it even though I knew I shouldn’t, and I fucked everything up, and -"

"I love you too. I love you too. Fuck, Scotty, I -" 

The kiss is bruising, strong and sure and messy, like him, like you. It is open mouth and huffed out breath and salt-wet skin. It is a north star when you’ve been sailing aimless for months. 

He talks against your mouth, words spilling around your lips, snatches of “I’m sorry,” and “So stupid,” and “Never should have.” You twist his hair in your hands, press your foreheads together until your nose hurts from it, fierce and possessive. You can be. You can be.

"Remind me never to try and be fuckbuddies with anybody I’m in love with ever again," you say, trying to laugh about it even as you choke on the thought. 

"You better not. Not without me. Not without -" 

"Yeah, not without you," you agree, pressing hard, chaste kisses to his cheeks, his mouth, his jaw. "Not without you." 

 

 

The sun sets while you are burying yourself in his mouth, but it’s warm and it’s safe with him here in your arms so you don’t notice, don’t care. He rubs gentle hands up and down your biceps, tugging at your arms, shifting you over his body as he lays in the grass. So beautiful. 

"I thought…" he starts, smiles, shakes his head. 

"I know." Intimately. You know. He looks away, eyes starlit and wondering.

"I figured this would be the end of everything."

"Sort of is," you shrug, and when his jaw drops, you can’t help the laugh. It’s as natural as breathing, nipping at his mouth while you giggle, grin, stupid on your happiness. "Start of something new. Something better." 

"You think it’s gonna get better?" he laughs too, rolls his hips up to meet yours in a tease. 

It already is. 

_Oh simple thing where have you gone? // I’m getting old and I need something to rely on //  So tell me when you’re gonna let me in // I’m getting tired and I need somewhere to begin._

**Author's Note:**

> Your feedback is valuable to all fic writers, and I'm no exception. If you enjoyed this story, please let me know.
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://quicklikelight.tumblr.com).


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